


Needlework

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:52:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2908388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos learns to sew - or tries to, at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needlework

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> This is a request from foooooooooooooooooorever ago from [JL](http://jlarinda.tumblr.com/) that was pretty much just "Porthos attempts to sew while Aramis sits there all ♥ at him". So here it is, ahaha.

Of the things that Aramis knows of Porthos, it’s quite possibly the furrow of his brow that he’s come to appreciate most. If only because he has always appreciated his smile, his laugh, his crisp way of speaking and his indelicate means of fighting. No, he has always appreciated Porthos’ finer qualities – the look in his eyes just before he leans in to kiss him, the slight tilt of his grin when he’s truly pleased, the definitive press of his gun to Aramis’ neck. 

It’s the furrow that he’s truly come to enjoy, if only because when he first met Porthos, that scowl was almost always in place and it’d become his mission to erase it. It’s only after he’s seen Porthos in softer light, lax in his sleep, lips parted, or tilted up in his tiny, crooked grin that Aramis truly allowed himself to appreciate that, even when bent over in frustration or concentration, the laugh lines never fully disappear from the corners of his eyes and there’s always the shadow of his dimples. His eyebrows knit together and it only throws his scar in sharp relief, his eyes dark and pooling with the life he’s lived. 

And if Aramis were to say all this, Porthos _would_ furrow his brow, twist of his mouth, and stare at him – and only after doing so would he start to laugh, tease him about his poetry and his romantic notions. And then, most likely, he’d draw Aramis in and kiss him until Aramis forgot how to breathe. 

He indulges himself, indeed, by reaching out and tracing his fingertip over one of Porthos’ eyebrows. Porthos is bent over a scrap of fabric, frowning – and he looks utterly incongruous, his large hands struggling to hold a needle looped with thread. 

“Perhaps I would recommend leaving it to finer hands?” Aramis asks, because Porthos has managed to make a mess of the scrap and Aramis is truly thankful he hadn’t given Porthos one of his own shirts to mend. The stitches are too far away in places and far too close together in others, crooked and fraying, following a haphazard pattern rather than the straight line required. 

Porthos grunts, twists the needle between finger and thumb and Aramis watches the movement, amused despite himself. Porthos is all large hands and unrefined movement, and it’s something that Aramis has always appreciated of him – that his hands, large and destructive, can also be so gentle, can make him fall apart with such simple touches, hold him down and hold him tight with a surprising tenderness. And yet the art of needlework utterly escapes him. 

“I should be able to do this,” Porthos protests. “In case you and Athos are unable, I should be able to do it well enough.” 

“You do it just fine,” Aramis says, knowing that Porthos is not speaking of mending of chemises and shirtsleeves, but of more delicate matters. “But I can assure you that, if given the choice, I believe our friends would choose my work over yours.”

“I should still know how,” Porthos repeats. “I can handle this.” 

“I have no doubt of that,” Aramis says, slowly, “Although you know full well that mending clothes is a different stitching altogether in comparison to stitching up a man.” 

Porthos grunts.

“And besides,” Aramis adds, “Clothing doesn’t squirm and squirm with no end. _That_ will make your work all the more difficult.” 

Porthos rolls his eyes. “You’re hilarious.” He waves the scrap of fabric in his hand, flattens it out in his palm, fingers at the needle absently. He frowns. “I should be able to do this, regardless.” 

“I know.” Aramis sighs out. “But, I hope you won’t be insulted when I say you need far more practice than one night will allow.”

Porthos twists up his lips in something he would utterly deny is a pout and yet Aramis can only describe it as such. 

“Perhaps you should try mending leather,” Aramis suggests, sliding his hands up to curl around his wrists loosely, if only for the sake of touching him without threat of a needle to his palm. “Your strength lends itself well to being able to penetrate it.” 

Porthos studies him for a moment – and then his eyebrows lift in a thoroughly filthy manner disguised with innocent inquiry, “Oh, and you like it when I can penetrate it.” 

“Don’t be a brute,” Aramis laughs, grinning. 

Porthos waggles his eyebrows, sets down the fabric, and reaches up to cup Aramis’ face – dragging him down and kissing him. Aramis laughs around the kiss, his own hands lifting to touch at his face in turn, fingers sliding along his brow, over his temples, and into his hair. He can feel the curve of Porthos’ smile, swallowing around his laughter, pressing closer to him. 

“It’s far too delicate work and you’re far too blunt for it,” Aramis determines, nibbling on Porthos’ bottom lip. He’s grinning a little, a stupid, silly grin – but he can’t help it. Porthos does that.

“Again,” Porthos says, “You like that.” 

“I admit to nothing,” Aramis demurs, and bats his eyelashes a little – which is always a sign for Porthos to scoop him up and throw him onto the nearest surface, preferably a bed. Which Porthos does so now. 

Aramis does not protest.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) for whatever reason!


End file.
